


Stop All the Clocks

by SeaAnemone



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Angst, Detective AU, F/M, Humor, Laura AU, Murder Mystery, Romance, Sexual Tension, don't worry though y'all gaby is not dead, she's here and the fun can begin
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-28
Updated: 2017-06-21
Packaged: 2018-09-20 12:54:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 18,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9491729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SeaAnemone/pseuds/SeaAnemone
Summary: Between the annoying American partner forced upon him and the fact that he is falling in love with the woman whose murder he is investigating, this is surely going to be the most difficult case of Illya's career.Then once the supposed murdered woman shows up, very much alive, Illya is convinced that his life has become the punchline to some cosmic joke.(An AU based on the 1944 movie Laura.)





	1. The DI and the PI

**Author's Note:**

> I've had this idea for months and I'm so excited to be writing it, at long last! Laura is one of my favorite movies and I hiiiighly recommend it if you haven't seen it. Just a note that the story will have some general spoilers for the movie (and vice versa) but in the specifics it'll be quite different. I hope you enjoy <3

It's cold and dark and the rain is coming down in sheets, splashing up Illya's calf and soaking the cuffs of his pants as he walks through the foreboding streets.

He is used to much crueler conditions, winters that seep into your bones and leave a permanent chill there even after the last snowflake has melted. But he truly hates this London weather. Something about the English rain is _arrogant_ , degrading. It watches him roam the streets as an outsider, stalking his every move, waiting for his slightest failure. And when failure comes so does the rain to patronize him, to send him lower than he already is, falling and striking him in its haughty way as if to tell him, _You_ — _Are_ — _A_ — _Disgrace._

He pulls his collar up to block some of the thrashing raindrops from raising goosebumps on his neck. It's failure that has sent him out in the deluge — at least, anticipated failure. His chief inspector has never doubted his ability in the past. Illya has never given him cause to. But when this case hit his desk, before he could crack it open, the older man's mouth formed a straight, hard line and he pushed the folder closed.

"I don't like the looks of this one, Kuryakin," his tone had left Illya with a bitter taste, worse than the godawful, tannin tea that's so popular in this country.

"Do you ever like the looks of murders, sir?" he had answered flatly.

"You've been here long enough to know I'm not an easily shaken man. But this is a foul case even for someone with your iron constitution." A pause, and then he had continued hesitantly, "I'd like for you to consider a partner for this one."

_"Partner?"_ Illya spat the word back.

The chief adjusted his glasses. "Yes, a specialist of sorts. Not one of our men. One of those private-eyes."

Illya fell back in his chair in disgust. "I am not trusted to do my own job now?"

"Don't take it personally, Kuryakin. He has an insight into the…more unpleasant aspects of our city." He had handed Illya a card. "This is his address. Go see him tonight, if the weather allows. He's a bit unorthodox, but you'll get along just splendidly."

His superior had started to walk away, but stopped and tapped his lips thoughtfully.

"Or rather, you probably won't care for him at all. But you _will_ love to hate him."

Now Illya is trekking through apocalyptic conditions to find this man's office in an area of the city he would never visit if given the choice. The little set of flats is fixed between a crumbling, abandoned church and an all-night discothèque with a flickering sign, the perfect scene for the kind of loose morals that Illya ascribes to all private "detectives". He approaches the main door to find the hinges and lock broken, so he lets himself in with a scowl.

A man his size is forced to keep his head bent down as he climbs the stairs, just barely avoiding the ceiling. He reaches the door whose frosted window proudly announces "The Office of Napoleon Solo: Private Investigator" in an ornate font. Illya shakes his coat off noisily and knocks.

"Enter," a voice calls lazily from the other side of the door, the American accent strong and unashamed. Illya turns the knob slowly and steps into the room, and quirks an eyebrow. Amid the collapsing structures, this seedy underbelly of the city, Solo's office is a pristine masterpiece. Fine paintings line the walls, beautiful sculptures and vases occupy every open space on the shelves, even the curtains and carpet are made of rich, heavy materials that ooze expense.

The man sitting with legs propped up on the mahogany desk notices Illya's fixation.

"I prefer to surround myself with the finer things, especially in this dismal place."

"You are lucky you are not robbed," Illya responds dryly.

"A fair point." Napoleon tosses his newspaper on the desk. "But I think 'stolen' is a matter of perspective, anyway." He pauses to scan the other man in a way that makes Illya bristle, standing up to his full height.

"So, who are you and what can I do for you?"

"DI Kuryakin," Illya replies, then after a moment: "Waverly sent me."

Napoleon's eyes widen in recognition. "The Red Peril of Scotland Yard himself. Are the rumors true then? Former Soviet soldier finds himself in London for reasons unknown, joins our boys in blue, and becomes the fastest promoted officer in the history of the force?"

Illya's expression can only be described as bored when he sighs, "You have ear for pointless gossip, it seems."

"Gossip's only pointless if it turns out false. And even then, it's such fun." Napoleon brings his legs down and leans forward, suddenly rapt with interest. "What was it that sent you away then? State secrets? Treason? Sordid love affair with a cold Russian beauty? What could turn such a _patriot_ away from his beloved country?"

The man's tone is dripping with sarcasm, which Illya does not appreciate in the slightest. He shoots the man an even look.

"You seem determined to diagnose me."

Napoleon smirks. "When I'm not detecting, I freelance as a psychoanalyst. And I admit, you're quite the puzzle."

"Hm." Illya casts his gaze around the entire room again. "You, on the other hand, are open book."

"Really? Go on, then."

"You like to surround yourself with shiny things — pretty amenities, to distract from fact that you belong in this place. You want to seem cultured, like the golden statuettes on your shelves. Really, you are as tarnished as the floors outside your little office."

"I'm hurt, Peril. Is that your impression of me already? We've hardly even met."

Illya scoffs. "I knew you before I came here. A detective with your supposed skill not on the force? Surely there is reason."

"And what do you suppose that is?"

"Say, being found guilty of the thefts you supposedly investigated."

Napoleon folds his hands behind his head and leans back a little. "Yes, but in the end I still got my man," he says in good humor.

"And so you ran off from your American home, to England, with tail between your legs."

Napoleon just shrugs. It's like water off a duck's back to him, which Illya might find impressive if it weren't so damned annoying.

"That's some excellent diagnostic work there, Peril. But let's get back to you," Napoleon says, surveying the tall man who's dripping rainwater on his new rug.

"So then…why do you suppose you're here?"

"Some still have faith in your ability, it seems."

"Oh, I'm sure you're capable of handling a little murder by yourself. What's the address, out of curiosity?"

Illya tosses a file on the desk. "See for yourself."

Napoleon peruses the papers, then looks up smugly.

"Ah. You see, this is a special neighborhood. A sophisticated one. Whether or not you call it a façade, I think you'll find I blend into higher society quite well. What about you?"

Illya says nothing.

"Do you really think the upper echelon will be forthcoming with _you_ , the gruff Russian giant, son of a political traitor and a woman with a very popular—"

"Enough," Illya warns with a pulsing anger. How this man could possibly know any of that is — beyond infuriating. 

"You see," Napoleon says quietly, "I knew you before you came here, too." The way Illya's hands are clenching spasmodically is something Napoleon finds privately satisfying.

Illya rummages in his coat pocket for his driest cigarette, does the same with his matches in the other pocket. Napoleon watches him light one with his thumbnail, the strike-anywhere kind.

"I'd prefer if you didn't light up in here. I find the smoke irritating."

"But it keeps _me_ calm." Illya flicks the extinguished match on the rug.

"I wonder, do those matches ever blow up in your pocket?"

Illya steps on the match for good measure, singeing the poor fibers, and turns back to the door. "We visit the crime scene in the morning. Don't be late."

"See you tomorrow, _pardner,_ " Napoleon says in obnoxious Western English. The detective slams the door behind him with enough force to make the window panel tremble. Quite the temper on that man. If those cigarettes don't kill him, high blood pressure surely will.

Napoleon glances over the case file on his desk, humming to himself. The victim was a pretty sort of girl, small, with doe-like features. What a shame, he thinks to himself. He hates to see any beauty in the world extinguished, and she doesn’t look the type to inspire homicidal rage in anybody. She has a little fire in her eyes, to be sure, something that might smolder and entrance the opposite sex, if you fell for that kind of thing.

He shrugs and closes the file. He prefers not to read too much into a case before interviewing suspects; after all, faulty assumptions will just set him back. While locking his office, he curses and rushes back in to the phone. Waverly usually compensates him for his efforts, sometimes by his fee and sometimes by overlooking the little petty behaviors that a stickler for the law might otherwise object to. But if he has to work with the ill-humored Red Peril, he damn well wants to make sure it will be worth his while.

* * *

Arriving at home and soaked to the bone, Illya wishes he had chosen to take a patrol car, even if his expedition had technically been off-duty. He throws his coat on the rack and flicks on a lamp in his desolate apartment.  Living alone and working odd hours means that home feels more like a base, the place for him to store his belongings and wait for the next day to start. His furniture is drab and worn; no art hangs on the walls, just the occasional note or newspaper clipping taped up when inspiration strikes for a case.

Sitting at his small dining table and sipping a weak cup of coffee, he pours over the case notes again. Illya has a strong stomach for this kind of scene — he wouldn't have lasted in Homicide if he didn't — but the photos and descriptions test even his constitution. A young woman, beautiful by all accounts, whose face has been on the receiving end of a double-barreled shotgun, at close range. He's surprised that the coroner was able to identify her, but then again she had been found in her own apartment.

He has three suspects so far. There's the fiancé, a slick playboy type from the photo, and so perhaps it was a crime-of-passion situation. In his experience, those tend to be messier. Evidence is left, witnesses hear arguing, the suspect panics or even shows remorse. Apart from the murder technique, this is a clean job, in and out. She opens the door, the person on the other side fires and flees. Calculated. And yet, the close range makes sense for an intimate relation. He wonders if she was a person who could have inspired that sort of fitful passion…

There's also the uncle, the woman's only blood relative in the country it seems. He isn't sure what a motive might be for him yet, but that will be the focus of his interviews tomorrow. Could it have been a fight over money, family property? What do families usually fight about? Illya's hardly an expert on that. Perhaps Solo won't be completely useless and will offer some insight.

Then there's the neighbor, the woman who found the body. They also worked for the same company, so perhaps there's some professional animosity there. Her reason for entering the apartment is unclear, so there might be more of a personal connection than meets the eye. Sometimes killers think that "discovering" a body puts them in the clear, which always backfires. She doesn't look like the type to make such a mistake though: cold, razor-sharp. Certainly capable of murder. The question is, why?

He sighs and checks his watch, runs his fingers over the smooth face. Three AM. It has been twenty hours since his last contact with his pillow and he's now aching for a reunion. Dropping his damp clothes in a crumpled pile, he collapses in his bed and falls asleep within minutes.


	2. A Beautiful Partnership

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A second chapter, finally I've done it! We're getting on to the good stuff in the next few. The next should be up soonish, if I don't continue to be the worst? Maybe a week? Fingers crossed! 
> 
> Please let me know what you think, I love this community and your comments & kudos bring me much warmth in the darkness of my writing cave <3

Months ago, the Yard hosted a "Meet Your Policemen" luncheon for local families as part of the chief superintendent's campaign to improve relationships with civilians. The children, not interested in the politics of it all, demanded stories. Officers told them about things they would read in novels or see in the movies: daring chases, exciting shoot-outs that end with the bad man in custody. When a fair-haired boy asked Illya what his favorite case was, he recounted the story of the two top mafia enforcers who did him the courtesy of shooting each other to death in the alley behind a restaurant, clearing twice the scum off the street as usual and solving the case before he even had one.

He wasn't invited to the luncheon events again after that.

Being a policeman is neither as daring nor as bleak as the stories suggest. Police work is boring. Once, he had led the charge on a drug raid, and when he took a bullet they had called him a hero. At the end of it, he still had the same amount of paperwork to do. He keeps the medal in his desk drawer, sometimes looking at it and wondering if he still would have received it without the lead in his leg. 

And when police work is not boring, it's poisonous. Countless cold bodies and weeping mothers and the sick monsters that create both have left him with a permanent anger simmering under his already short-tempered surface. He sees people as nothing more than binary beings: victims or criminals, helpless or beyond help.

Which is why, when he meets Napoleon at the steps of the victim's apartment, it is a spectacular feat of self-control not to send his fist into the man's smug face.

"I said it would be a charming neighborhood, didn't I? I'd be interested in a flat here myself. I wouldn't be surprised if recent…events, have sent the value plummeting."

Instead of punching him, Illya settles for grabbing his lapels and growling, "This is a crime scene. Have some respect, and shut up."

Napoleon pushes the hand away and smooths his creased coat, levels a glare at him. He is trying to look collected, but it seems physical force has ruffled his preened feathers. Illya makes a mental note of that.

"After you then, _comrade._ "

When the uniformed officer at the door lets them in, Illya is struck by the modest loveliness of the rooms. He expected something gaudy and screaming of wealth, based on the eminent architecture outside and Napoleon's admiration. Instead it's comfortably furnished but not lavish, cluttered with books and magazines. If it weren't for the large blood stain at the entrance, it might feel very homey.

The uncle and the neighbor are waiting for them inside, the first looking very agitated and the second looking utterly bored.

"You must be the inspector," the man rushes forward and shakes Napoleon's hand. "I'm—I _was_ Gaby's uncle. Rudi von Trulsch."

"Thank you, Mr. von Trulsh, but I'm afraid you're shaking the wrong hand. The inspector is the monolith to my right." Illya can feel Napoleon's arrogant look without seeing it, and clenches a fist in his pocket.

"Oh, I am sorry." The man looks distraught, so Illya ignores his damaged ego and extends his hand to the uncle.

"It's alright. DI Kuryakin."

"I thought it would be best for us to be here when you arrived, Mr. Kuryakin. I can answer any questions about my dear Gaby, and Victoria is the one who—who found the body." He gestures to the striking woman sitting by the fireplace, who stands to her full, impressive height at the mention of her name and strides forward to shake both detectives' hands.

"Thank you. We will need to examine the scene first, and then speak to you. Is there a place where you can wait?"

"Yes, my apartment is directly above us. We can wait there. I'd prefer to be away from this bloodstain, in any case. The poor, dear girl." Victoria adds the last sentiment hurriedly, an afterthought.

"They are surprisingly cooperative with police," Illya comments once they are gone. It's a refreshing change of pace from the aggressive ruffians he normally deals with.

"They may appear that way, but wait. The wealthy never give up anything they don't want to," Napoleon warns.

Illya hums. "Strange sentiment, for a capitalist."

"I merely speak from experience."

Illya shuts the door and crouches down to examine the bloodstain, Napoleon following his lead.

"This is very close to front door. Based on the photos of the body, she must have opened it for someone, they shot, then she collapsed in front of it." Illya scribbles this in his notebook.

"Premeditated, then. Probably not a stranger," Napoleon adds.

"Yes. Right now, the two upstairs and the fiancé are persons of interest." Illya stands, wincing at his stiff knee. 

"Isn't it a little early to be naming suspects?"

" _Don't_ tell me how to do my job."

Napoleon raises his hands in surrender. "You're the expert. You lead the way."

They look around the rest of the apartment in silence, Illya taking notes and Napoleon annoyingly _not,_ simply wandering around and picking up random objects, giving them a cursory glance, and setting them down again.

Illya notes with curiosity how _clean_ the apartment is. Tiles recently scrubbed, dishes washed and put away, the bed made. Often a crime scene looks frozen in time, with tables set or clothes laid out. Once he had a victim who was strangled in his own bathroom, the shower left running.

He meets Napoleon in the bedroom, going through the dresser, and slams the drawer shut.

"I didn't bring you here to rifle through a dead woman's underwear drawer," he snaps.

"I'm not _rifling._ Before I was so rudely interrupted, I found _this_ in there." He holds up a leather-bound journal. "She lives alone. Who do you think she was hiding a diary from?"

Illya snatches it away. "I will find out."

"Look, you may not want to acknowledge it, but I know what I'm doing. It doesn't hurt to compare notes."

Illya exhales sharply and offers, "the apartment is meticulously cleaned, like she was preparing for an event. Or a trip."

"Or perhaps a visitor."

"What makes you say that?"

"Did you notice the contents of the bar?"

Illya flips through his notes and lists off, "Gins, vodkas, brandy, a few bottles of wine. Expensive ones."

"Quite the arsenal, but no whiskeys, you'll notice. Presumably Miss Teller was not a fan."

"What of it?"

"Surely you noticed the bottle of scotch on the bedside table. Cheaper brand, but it gets the job done. Didn't you see it?"

Illya's jaw sets. "Go on."

"Perhaps it was purchased for, or brought by, an evening guest."

"You suspect someone in the apartment already was the one who killed her?"

"At the very least, it's a potential witness."

Illya nods. "We should talk to the relatives then. I'll take the uncle, you take Victoria."

That smug look flares up again. "With pleasure.

 

* * *

 

"Excuse me, Inspector—please don't touch that. It's a family heirloom." The uncle's patronizing tone sets Illya on edge, and he shuts the lid to Miss Teller's music box with unnecessary force.

"What kind of woman was your niece?" He asks without looking at the man perched on the living room sofa, still inspecting the bookshelves. Illya can never sit still during witness interviews, preferring to maintain his distance and air of indifference.

"She was such a strong girl. She was living in East Germany until a few years ago, right behind the Wall, with her mother until she died. I managed to pull a few strings and bring her to live with me. She had nothing but the clothes on her back when she came here, and her trunk. I gave it as a gift to my sister—that is, her mother. Gaby treasured it, I believe she still keeps it in her bedroom." Rudi smiles, an expression that seems foreign to his features.

"Did she have anyone who might wish her harm?"

"Gaby was—she spoke her mind. It got her into trouble on more than one occasion, but I think people found it more endearing than anything else."

"Who else has access to her apartment?"

"Victoria has the only spare key, to my knowledge."

"You don't have one?"

Rudi shakes his head. "I repeatedly asked for one, for safety reasons. But Gaby was always stubborn about her independence."

"When was the last time you spoke to her?"

"Friday evening. She—seemed upset."

"Did she say why?"

"She and Alexander, her fiancé, they get into little spats every so often. Nothing serious, but she told me that she needed time to 'think things over.' I think she intended to go out of town."

"Did she say where?"

"No, I'm afraid not." He pauses and sips his tea with a trembling hand.

"Are you alright, Mr. von Trulsch?"

"Oh, yes. I was just—you don't think he could have killed her, do you? Alexander."

Illya examines the photos on the shelves, one of Miss Teller and her fiancé, one presumably of her mother, several of the woman alone in scenes of nature. "I won't make any judgment until I have all of the evidence. Where is Alexander now?"

"He's at the office—the Vinciguerra Corporation. That's where I work, in research and development. Gaby worked there as well, but for our magazine publication. That's how she and Alexander met, when I brought her in to ask for a job."

Illya raises an eyebrow. "He's back at work already?"

Rudi explains quickly, "Alexander wanted to be strong, for the rest of the workforce. It's hard on all of them. Gaby was universally adored."

"Hm. I'll need to speak to him. Can you write down the address?" He hands him the pencil from behind his ear. Rudi looks at it distastefully and pulls out a pen from his own pocket.

"Yes, but I'm afraid Alexander will be very busy. He may not have time—"

"I'm sure he can _make_ time to discuss his fiancée's murder investigation," Illya says sternly. Another capitalist trait he can't understand: these people would forsake their own families to earn another day's dollar.

"I—yes, of course." Rudi hands Illya the address.

"And may I take this for reference?" He plucks a small photo from the shelf, the sunny one of Miss Teller in Kensington Gardens.

"Yes, as long as you return it. That portrait is one of my favorites, and I've known the authorities to be… _light-fingered,_ in the past, if you understand my meaning."

He understands Rudi's meaning far too well and struggles not to crush the frame in his hand. "I will return it," he says in a measured tone. "One last question: where were you on the night of your niece's death?"

"What—you don't really suspect me, do you?"

"Answer the question."

Rudi huffs. "I suppose I was—yes, I was working quite late, until around nine. When I returned home, I was exhausted. It was a quick nightcap and off to bed."

Illya jots this down. "Hm. That's all for now, Mr. von Trulsch. But do not go far, we may have more questions."

"I'm not one of the scoundrels you normally interact with, Inspector. I have no intention of skipping town."

 Illya sticks a cigarette in his mouth, and it hangs unlit from his lips as he says, "No, you are not. What a shame—I am starting to miss them."

 

* * *

 

"It's a splendid flat you have here, Miss Hastings." Towering ceilings, modern furniture, and crisp color schemes give her home a very different feel than Miss Teller's.

She takes a seat in a throne-like chair. "Please, Victoria is fine. And there's no need for the British vernacular, Mr. Solo."

Napoleon takes a seat in the smaller armchair across from her. "Am I that obvious?"

"With that accent, I'm afraid you stick out like a sore thumb."

"Did Miss Teller have that problem?"

"Oh, little Gaby's English was very good. I think her exoticness just made her all the more popular."

"Were the two of you close?"

"I suppose, yes." She meets his eyes evenly with a hint of a smile, and Napoleon recognizes her type. The icy demeanor, the smoky gaze. _Femmes fatales_ are never forthcoming. Enjoyable when it comes to play, frustrating when it comes to work.

"You seem to be recovering very well."

"Please don't mistake me for insensitive, but I'm not one for grieving, Mr. Solo. It doesn't accomplish anything."

"I understand. And what were you doing on Friday evening?"

"I had opera tickets. Box seats for _Carmen_ at the Royal Albert."

"Anyone with you?"

She smiles secretively. "Am I a suspect?"

"Shouldn't you be?"

"Oh yes, I'd be offended if you excluded me. I have my ticket stub to prove it, of course."

"Of course," he echoes, and stands up. "Do you mind if I pour myself a drink?"

"Not at all, I apologize for not offering."

"That's alright, I prefer to fix my own." He moves to the bar and examines the crystal decanters, remembering instances of blurring vision, broken glasses and head injuries. Since then he made it a rule never to drink with suspects, but he has never been very good at following even his own principles.

Victoria drapes an arm over the side of her throne, the golden bangles around her wrist clinking as she moves. "Mr. Solo, you make my intentions sound so sinister."

He pours himself a scotch and returns to his seat. "I like to take precautions. Call it a hazard of the trade."

"Of course. I think we're very alike, Mr. Solo."

"Is that so?"

"Indeed. You have an instinct for survival, and so do I. Our motivations are the same: self-preservation."

"Does that have anything to do with why you went into Miss Teller's apartment yesterday? Self-preservation?"

Victoria scoffs. "Nothing as exciting as that. She hadn't been in to the office. It was out of character, so I wanted to check in."

"Did you call first?"

"Yes, but there was no answer."

"Her fiancé didn't think to check himself?" he asks skeptically.

"To be honest, I don't think Alexander has a key. They may have been engaged, but Gaby wanted her privacy."

"Do you know anyone else who has a key?"

"Rudi, perhaps? You'll have to ask him."

Napoleon rises to his feet and buttons his jacket. "I'll do that. Thanks for the scotch."

She extends an elegant hand. "That was the blended. You'll have to come back for the single malt."

He accepts it, presses it to his lips like a true gentleman. "I'll try not to disappoint."

 

* * *

 

Illya doesn't mince words when Napoleon meets him on the front steps: "Alexander Vinciguerra is at the office. Come on, we'll take my car."

On the way to the Vinciguerra Corporation, Napoleon grips the passenger door with white knuckles as Illya takes every turn sharply enough to tip the vehicle on two wheels.

"What did Victoria say?" the inspector asks.

"Well—she's not too broken up about the loss of 'little Gaby.' Said the reason she went into the apartment was that Gaby hadn't shown up to work, which was out of character."

"On a Saturday?"

"My thoughts exactly. We'll have to ask around the office to see if that holds up." Napoleon holds his breath as they turn onto the main thoroughfare and narrowly avoid colliding with an Alfa Romeo, which honks loudly. "Does Rudi have a spare key?"

"He said no."

"Why would she choose Victoria to have the only one?"

"Alexander doesn't have one?"

"Doesn't seem that way."

"Their relationship did not seem very strong."

"You think it was a lovers' quarrel then?"

"I do not know. The fought often. She was stubborn, but independent. And liked by everyone." 

Napoleon looks at him, bemused. "Are you speaking from personal experience?"

Illya hunches forward and the trees alongside the road become increasingly rapid blurs. "That's Rudi's description, not mine."

"Look, can you _please_ slow down?"

"Of course." The car slams to a halt in front of a monumental building with enough fountains on display to drain the Thames. "We are here."

 

* * *

 

Napoleon stops his partner on their way into the sparkling lobby. "Let me do the talking this time, hm?" He approaches the front desk, flashes a million-watt smile at the exotic woman working there and says, "We're here to see Mr. Vinciguerra, please. It's of the utmost importance."

"What is this regarding?" she asks in a musical accent.

"The dearly departed, I'm afraid." With this, Illya flashes his badge and adds, "Scotland Yard."

"Oh, you mean poor Gaby. Well, I'm not actually Mr. Vinciguerra's assistant but—"

"Who is?"

"Miss Victoria Hastings. But since she's out, I can check his schedule for you."

"While you're at it, can you tell me if Miss Teller normally worked on Saturdays?"

"Yes—I think so. Not every weekend, but it wasn't uncommon."

"Thank you so much." Napoleon smiles again, the young woman blushes as she flips through a heavy stack of papers, and Illya suppresses his gag reflex.

"Yes, he should be free now. If you'll come with me."

They follow her down the busy halls of the Corporation, her heels clacking loudly on the gleaming tile.

"Mr. Vinciguerra has a meeting with investors in a half hour, but you may speak with him in his office until then."

"It could take longer than that," Illya tells her.

"Mr. Vinciguerra never keeps investors waiting. You'll have half an hour," she says sternly, and ushers them into the office.

"Still enjoying cooperation with the police?" Napoleon mutters.

"I haven't been shot or sworn at," he grumbles. "So far, it could be worse."

"That sunny disposition of yours certainly helps."

Alexander is standing by the enormous window behind his desk but turns when he hears the two men enter.

"Ah, you must be the detectives—I'm sorry I couldn't meet you earlier, but, as you can see, duty calls." He gestures around his office, various architectural samples and technological models filling the room.

They shake hands and introduce themselves. As Illya looks at the décor with mortification — clearly no one ever taught the man that subtlety is a virtue — Napoleon says, "Can I ask what exactly it is that you _do_ here, Mr. Vinciguerra?"

"Why, we specialize in the future, Mr. Solo. Transportation, energy, communication, security—we have a piece in all of it."

"Interesting. Tell me, out of curiosity, is your security research—"

"Ah—why don't you tell us about your fiancée, Mr. Vinciguerra?" Illya interrupts and shoots Napoleon a warning glance.

Alexander sighs. "My Gaby, she was—well, a force of nature hardly does it justice. She was so confident in her own skin, I think everyone envied that." He laughs, and continues, "when I first met her, she broke my nose. She threw my office door open when I was on my way out, and I ran right into it. Apologized profusely, but didn't even wait for the doctor to get here before she asked me for a job."

Illya writes quickly in his notebook. "How long had you been engaged?"

"About—six weeks."

"And before that?"

"I had my eye on her for a while, but it wasn't until six months ago that we became serious."

"What did she do here?"

"She worked in Publications—our news magazine division. She was promoted to Editor-in-Chief in May."

"Hm. And was she popular in the office?"

"Everyone in Publications loved her. She's to thank for our current popularity, when she decided to run articles on the everyday applications of our innovations. It really made our work palatable for the average person. Recently she was breaking down politicians' doors for interviews on commitment to solar energy, space travel, things like that. Automobiles were her real passion, but she knew a little something about everything."

Illya puts his pencil behind his ear and asks, "if that's true, why wasn't she working in the transportation department?"

"Well, a woman in the design room or on the factory floor would be—unprecedented. We all felt she would be more comfortable in Publications."

"And she agreed with that decision?"

Alexander raises an eyebrow. "She put up a fight, of course, but she knew it was for the best. I'm sorry, Inspector, but I'm not seeing how this is relevant, and I have a very important—"

"Where were you the night Miss Teller was murdered?" Napoleon asks.

"I was taking my assistant to a performance—it was a birthday gift, Gaby knew about it, of course," he adds quickly. "I'm sorry to say I wasn't with her. Maybe I could have…done something, anything."

"So you were with Miss Hastings?"

"Yes, Victoria. You've met her, I take it."

"We just finished speaking to her. I believe she said it was a concert—Verdi's _Requiem_ , wasn't it?"

"Er, yes, I believe so."

Napoleon smiles. "Well thank you so much, Mr. Vinciguerra. You've been very helpful. We'll leave you to your investors." Illya begins to object, but Napoleon quickly pushes him to the door.

 

* * *

 

Outside, on the steps of the building, Illya stops and glares at Napoleon.

"What are you _still_ smiling about?"

"Victoria said she was at the theatre, Royal Albert Hall, but it was an _opera,_ not a concert."

Illya snorts. "Maybe he doesn't know the difference."

"I find that unlikely—you don't have to be an aficionado to tell the difference between an orchestra concert and a theatre performance."

"Hm. You may be onto something. Call the theatre and ask about Victoria's tickets." After a pause, he adds, "Well done."

"Are you alright, Peril? I'm afraid the effort of complimenting me could have just caused you physical harm."

"Shut up," Illya says automatically, and walks in the direction of the car.

"This really is shaping up to be a beautiful partnership," Napoleon calls, and when he realizes the Red Peril might not hesitate to abandon him here, he rushes after him.


	3. The Return

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your lovely comments! I hope you enjoy chapter three, because now we're cookin' with gas

Miss Teller's neighborhood is less lovely at night, Napoleon thinks. The architecture is more foreboding than elegant now, the morbid secrets of the interior seeping through the foundation. It's disconcerting for him, revealing what he already knew about the upper classes. He enjoys associating with them for their taste and the wealth that's more than they know what to do with — the lack of substance isn't something that bothers him. He's always out the door before substance becomes a concern, anyway.

He finds the front door unlocked when he reaches the apartment, no guard on duty, just a hulking figure at the desk in the study. The bloodstain on the carpet is gone, washed out by some impressive clean-up crew, the building association probably trying to sell the place already. Time marches on.

"What was so urgent that you needed a German-to-English dictionary at a crime scene, at—" he checks his watch and scoffs in disbelief, "—eleven o'clock at night?"

Without looking at him, Illya extends a hand to receive the book. "Some of her writing is in German, and my German is not so good anymore."

Napoleon drops it on the desk in front of him instead, with a satisfying thump. "It couldn't wait until tomorrow?"

"It could have a clue about the killer. The sooner I find out, the better."

"Better yet, why not take it home and get your own dictionary? I had my own plans tonight."

Illya answers tersely, "I won't take it out of the apartment."

After a lengthy pause in which Napoleon wonders if Peril forgot he is still there, he prods, "Why _not_?"

"It seems—disrespectful."

Napoleon blinks incredulously, then shuts the book on Illya's hand. "What is wrong with you?" he accuses.

Illya looks up at him for the first time since he entered the room and glares. "Excuse me?"

"Pocketing pictures of a murder victim, poring over her diary. Sitting in her apartment, at her desk, in the middle of the night. Are you trying to conjure her spirit?"

"It is _necessary_ to solve case—"

"Is that how you normally solve cases? If I didn't suspect there's nothing but ice in those veins, I would say you were developing feelings for a dead woman."

Illya rises to his feet. Yesterday, their height difference at close range might have been intimidating to Napoleon. Today it's just irritating. Still, he takes a step back to protect his collar from another act of unprovoked violence.

"Get out," the giant growls, and Napoleon is all too eager to return to more pleasant company for the evening.

On the way out the door, he cannot resist a parting shot:

"You'd better be careful, Kuryakin, or you might end up in the madhouse. I'm sure they've never had a patient who fell in love with a corpse."

Illya wrestles a cigarette out of his pocket with a trembling hand, breaking his own rule of never smoking at a crime scene without a second thought.

There _is_ something wrong with him. He can't concentrate since they started this case. He's anxious when people talk about her, nearly forgets important questions—he hasn't done that since he was a rookie. When he searched her bedroom, he _did_ miss that bottle of whiskey, too busy glancing at the dresses in her closet and wondering how a person could have been so miniature. The two of them would have looked absurd, side by side. He can imagine towering over her, while she has to crane her neck just to meet his eyes—

He should ask to be taken off this case. But how would he explain this weakness to Waverly, how his 'iron constitution' has been compromised by a few pretty pictures and charming stories about a murder victim? Maybe they really _would_ stick him in an institution. So he'll stomach the confusion and nerves until he catches the killer and does her memory justice.

He's already read the letters in her desk drawer, the journals that were left sitting out in the open. The diary was hidden though, a secret. Then again, murder victims don't have much claim to privacy. If it could lead him to the killer, does he have a choice?

He leans back and sighs. This study is far more comfortable than the kitchen table and wooden chair waiting for him at home. He rests his eyes for a minute, exhaustion starting to slow him down.

.

Gaby shakes her coat off noisily, regretting the decision to leave her umbrella at home. The hem of her new dress is soaked, and her flats are surely ruined. She grabs her key to unlock her apartment door, thinking about how wonderful it will be to take a bath, when she finds it's already open.

Her pulse spikes. She had been the victim of burglary in Germany, but this is such a wealthy neighborhood that she never thought anyone would dare break in here.

Searching the hallway for some makeshift weapon and finding none, she takes off her shoes and holds them tight, prepared to strike. When she enters, she notices the figure of a man who seems to be asleep at her desk.

She drops her bags and throws her first shoe. It connects with his shoulder, and he startles awake.

"What—you—" he stutters.

"Who _are_ you, and what are you doing in my apartment?"

He doesn't answer but keeps staring at her, brows furrowed in confusion. "You're _alive._ "

"If you don't get out of here, I'm calling the police."

"Wait." He stands and instantly she's nervous, not confident that she can defend herself against someone his size. He reaches for something in his pocket and she throws her other shoe, striking him in the chest.

"Wait—wait! I _am_ the police." He holds up his badge. "DI Illya Kuryakin."

"Why are you in my _apartment_?" she shouts.

"There has been a murder."

" _Here?_ And no one thought to contact me?"

He approaches her slowly with his hands still up, placating. "No, I am afraid we didn't."

She props a hand on her hip and asks testily, "Why _not?_ "

"Well—we thought it was _you_ who was murdered."

She stares blankly at Illya. " _What?_ "

"The—the body was found in your apartment. And given the murder method, facial identification was…not possible."

Gaby presses a hand over her mouth, the blood draining from her face. "I can't believe it. This place—where did it happen? There's no _blood_ anywhere."

"The cleaning crew has already come through. They are—quite thorough."

Gaby reaches for the arm of the sofa, looking ready to collapse. Illya catches her arm before she can, noticing through the soft fabric of her sleeve that she is chilled to the bone. He helps her to take a seat and kneels in front of her.

"You must be freezing."

"I'm fine," she says in a shaking voice.

"Can I get you anything? Coffee?"

"Something stronger, I think."

Illya nods and moves to the bar, pouring her a generous quantity.

"Vodka, please," she adds.

"I know," he answers, and brings her the glass. She raises an eyebrow but accepts it and takes a long swig.

"Thank you," she breathes slowly, steadying herself.

"When you are ready, I need to ask you a few questions."

"Yes, I'm ready."

"Where were you this weekend?"

"I went out to the coast. Lymington."

"What were you doing there?"

"We have a sailboat. I took it out for a few days."

"You like sailing?"

"I like the sea," she says impatiently.

"The weather was not so good this week. You still stayed on the boat?"

"Lymington isn't London. The weather was fine when I was out."

"Were you alone?"

"Yes, but I took pictures. My camera is in my suitcase, you can take the film and see for yourself."

"I will need to. Thank you." He watches as she crosses the room to her suitcase and rifles through its contents, studying the mannerisms that he'd imagined. She crouches down on the balls of her feet as she's searching, blows her still-damp hair out of her face.

How is it possible for her to be here, in the very much living flesh? Could he be dreaming? His mind easily could have created that dress, the way her hair droops and darkens from the rain, how it felt to touch her shoulder—

She catches him staring. He clears his throat conspicuously.

"Did you find it?" he asks quickly.

"Yes." She lifts the small case and brings it to him. "Here."

He takes it from her, his hand subconsciously brushing hers to confirm she is still real.

"Thank you."

Her eyes shift around the room nervously. "I should go, find my uncle—"

He raises a hand to stop her. "No, you'll need to stay here until we have better picture of what happened. Don't call anyone without my permission, and keep your doors locked tonight."

"I can't tell my friends I'm still alive? Not even my uncle?"

"It's important that they don't know yet. I'll call them here tomorrow so they can see for themselves."

Gaby crosses her arms over her chest and glares up at him. "So I'm expected to sit here, stuck in my own home, while everyone I care for still thinks I was murdered?"

Illya shifts on his feet. "I'm sorry, but yes."

"Well then, _I'm_ going to need another drink."

As she freshens her glass at the bar, Illya asks, "May I use your phone?"

"Yes, that's fine," she mumbles around a sip.

He calls the medical examiner first, and the conversation is an incredible feat of self-restraint as he manages not to tear the man to shreds with words alone. He hangs up on the promise to re-examine the body, more carefully this time.

His next call is to the American, who answers the phone sounding short of breath.

"You've got Solo."

"Been out for a jog?" Illya asks dryly.

"You have your nighttime diversions, and I have mine. Miss me already?"

"You should saddle up and get over here, Cowboy. There's been an unexpected…development in case."

"Your séance worked after all?"

Illya glances at the woman sitting at the desk with her face hidden in her tumbler. "You could say this, yes."

"Either you've developed a sense of humor, or there's something very wrong." A pause, and then in a surprisingly professional tone, "what's going on, Kuryakin?"

"She's alive. Just came home from the coast—"

"—and found you sitting in her house, perusing her personal materials." Napoleon laughs richly. "Oh, what I wouldn't _give_ to see that."

"Shut up, and _get_ here."

As he's muttering into her telephone, Gaby notices all of the papers spread across her desk, and her temper peaks when she sees her private diary lying next to a German dictionary.

"Did you go through my things?" she accuses when he finally hangs up.

"I am investigating a _murder_ , of course I did."

"Those are my private thoughts, my letters, you can't flip through them like a novel for your own enjoyment!"

"I had no choice." Gentler, he says, "I'm sorry—really, I am."

She lets out a sharp breath. "And my diary?"

"I did not get the chance. If there is something important in it, I hope you will tell me."

Gaby sighs, but doesn't respond again.

.

Illya watches Gaby pace the room from a nice vantage point on her sofa. She's definitely as small as he imagined, though her intensity fills up the whole room.

She suddenly stops in her tracks and looks at him. "Do you intend to stay here all night?"

"Do I bother you?"

Gaby scoffs. "I don't need protection, that's all."

"It is my professional opinion that you do."

"Oh, is it? Is this the same professional opinion that can't properly identify a murder victim?" she snaps.

Illya's voice goes stern when he says, "I'll lock you in and sit outside the door, if I have to."

"No. That _won't_ be necessary," Gaby says with her back to him, refilling her tumbler once again.

"Perhaps you would like bigger glass."

"I will finish this bottle. Care to join me, Mr. Kuryakin?"

In her accent, there's an edge of music to the sound of his name, more hypnotic than he could have imagined.

"I—no. Thank you."

"Hm. Suit yourself."

She walks to her shelves, selects a record and places it under the needle nearby. When she switches on the player, something fast-paced and jazzy and decidedly American roars to life.

Illya winces at the noise. "Do you have to have the music?"

"It relaxes me."

"It is too loud."

"Have you ever been married, Mr. Kuryakin?"

"No."

"Well, you should know that any good relationship is based on compromise. I hope we can have a good relationship. So if you insist on staying here all night, I insist on listening to music."

Illya rises to his feet. "This is not about compromise. It is too loud and will disturb the neighbors. We do not want them snooping around this apartment. So turn it down, or turn it off."

Gaby ignores his warning. "If you don't like this album, I can find another that might put you in a more pleasant mood."

Illya takes another step forward and glares. "Do I need to restrain you?"

"That sounds like a challenge."

"No, that is not—"

His objection is cut short when before he can blink, the little woman has run at him and tackled him, bringing them both to the ground and knocking a vase over in the process. It shatters on the floor several feet away.

Illya is pinned, his shoulders under the little woman's hands and her legs straddling his chest, with impressive strength. He pushes against her arms but she seems absolutely determined not to yield.

"This is still—an _active_ crime scene," he growls.

She leans in closer, her face inches from his, and his breath catches in his throat. "I can handle _myself,_ Detective," she says lowly.

Illya swallows. "I believe you," he manages.

There's an obnoxious slam of the door, and a voice calls from the foyer, "Why, Peril—she's more alive than you are!"

Illya sits up immediately, which has the unfortunate side effect of shifting Gaby into his lap. She stands quickly and unfazed, while he tries to keep the heat from rising in his face.

"Who's this, then?" she asks.

"Napoleon Solo, private eye," the American greets, and extends his hand. She takes it and shakes it sharply.

"Two detectives, on my case? And not only that, an American teaming up with a Russian. My murder really brings the world closer, doesn't it?"

Napoleon chuckles. "I must say, Miss Teller, I'm pleased to see you're alive and kicking. Now it's just a matter of figuring out who _was_ on the receiving end of two shotgun barrels in your foyer. Peril, any ideas?"

Illya is studying his lighter as nonchalantly as possible, and mumbles around a fresh cigarette, "I called the ME. We will know more once he reexamines the body."

"Hm. Miss Teller, do you have any idea who the unfortunate woman might actually be, and how she got into your apartment?"

"I have no idea. No one has a spare key, other than my neighbor, and that's just for emergencies. I keep one in my desk at the office, but I don't tell anyone about it."

"Anyone you know, who has a passing resemblance to you?"

Gaby's brow furrows. "There's one girl from work—Donna. A few people have joked that we could be sisters."

"Do you have a photo?"

"There's one of my whole department somewhere." She wanders to her shelves and grabs a frame, pointing to a smiling face. "Here, this is her."

Napoleon studies it. "Hm. Pretty girl. She could have known about the key, and taken it from your desk for some reason. So, either she was here with someone who turned out to be the murdering type, or she was in the wrong place at the wrong time, mistaken for Miss Teller."

Illya glances at the picture, but is more distracted by the way Gaby's face has gone pale again.

"Are you alright, Miss Teller?"

"Inspector Kuryakin…you asked earlier if there was anything important in my diary."

"Yes?"

"I found out recently that my fiancé has been having an affair. With this girl."

"Alexander?"

"Yes, I suppose it makes sense you've already met him."

"And so you broke it off?" Illya glances at his partner. "That could be motive."

"I haven't ended it yet. That's why I went out of town. I needed to be alone, to think things over."

"What is there to think about?" Illya asks in disbelief. "He betrayed your trust."

"I don't need your advice on my relationship, Inspector. I get plenty from my uncle as it is," Gaby snaps.

"I—You're right. It is not my place," he manages, ignoring the feeling of Napoleon staring holes into him. After a pause, he ventures, "did your uncle know?"

"Yes, I told him, but he just dismissed it as the kind of mistake a young man makes. He was so happy when we got engaged, I don't know how he'll take it if I tell him I've changed my mind."

"Surely he will want what is best for you," he answers gently.

Gaby scoffs. "What is best for me, in my uncle's mind, is whatever he says is best. And that means marrying the head of the company."

"Is that what you wanted for yourself?"

"What I…" Gaby glances nervously between the detectives. "I don't think that's relevant to the case."

"Save the counseling for another day, Peril," Napoleon mutters to the other man, and then says more loudly, "Was this an isolated incident with your fiancé, Miss Teller?"

"It was the only one I was sure about. But I've had my suspicions."

"Anyone in particular?" "Well, Victoria for one. His assistant."

The detectives exchange a look, and Napoleon says, " _Re_ ally? I'm impressed, Miss Teller. There's more drama and intrigue here than on the set of _General Hospital._ "

"I'm so glad this is entertaining for you, Mr. Solo," she answers flatly.


	4. Coffee, Detective?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Been fiddling with this chapter for way too long now, so I'm finally pulling the trigger. Enjoy more gallya awkwardness!

 

Gaby yawns widely as she fumbles with her coffee maker. She normally doesn't depend on the stuff to wake up, but after a long night of detectives asking her rapid-fire questions, it is an undeniable necessity. They finally left under the agreement that a guard would remain at her door at all hours, and she was able to take the bath she had looked forward to all night.

It didn't relax her the way she had hoped. All she could notice was how pale and soft and vulnerable her body looked under the water. Did Donna look like that—a small, helpless woman? She must have, if they mistook the body for her.

The events of the weekend had affected her more than she'd care to admit. That detective, the blonde one, had seemed gruff at first, but he had been remarkably kind to her in her shock, so she was glad he was the one to explain it all to her. The Russian accent surprised her, but of course, she doesn't exactly fit any kind of British archetype either. She imagines he's probably subject to the same kind of treatment she is, like those raised posh eyebrows at the sound of anything other than perfect English.

And she'd be lying if she said he wasn't an attractive man, even if it was tempered by arrogance at first. No, she likes him well enough now, and she trusts him. She can't remember the last time anyone stared at her like that, seeming so genuinely interested in what she did and said and thought. She wonders what she did to earn that fascination—other than escape death, of course.

She liked the other one as well, but more because he seemed like an absolute riot. American culture has always been exciting to her, and he overflowed with it.

"Good morning," a voice suddenly calls from the kitchen door behind her.

Gaby gasps and grabs the first implement she can from the counter, whips around and holds it threateningly at the intruder. When she sees a well-combed blonde head and a cigarette wrapped in an amused smirk, she tosses her weapon down with a huff.

"Do not startle a woman who's nearly just been murdered," she scolds.

"Sorry," he says. Illya takes a few steps forward and picks up the fork from the counter. "How exactly are you going to defend yourself with this?"

Gaby's lips quirk up. "I could poke you full of holes."

Illya rubs a spot on his chest dramatically. "Point taken."

The way he reacts to her is almost _cute,_ if such a word could be used to describe such a man. Gaby is hyperaware of their physical closeness and speaks the first excuse that comes to her mind to create some distance: "You know, it's good to see you, Inspector, but I was actually just leaving."

He surveys her. "In pajamas?"

"Well, I was going to get _dressed_ first," she says with an eye-roll.

Illya's voice goes stern. "You should not be leaving apartment, at least not without an escort." She gives him an exasperated look.

"I can't be a prisoner in my own _home_. There isn't even any food in the house. I need to go out and—" Illya thrusts a paper bag at her, the kind that promises fresh coffee and baked goods.

"Hm. Do all murder victims get such good service?"

"You are rare case, in more ways than one." Gaby eyes him and lets the words hang there, and Illya wishes he could grab them back.

"Oh. I see."

He clears his throat. "In that you came back from the dead, of course."

"Right. Of course." She puts the bag on the counter and begins pulling out the packages, checking the labels. "Silvia's is my favorite bakery. How did you know?"

"I—think someone mentioned it. During investigation."

"You have a good memory."

Illya shrugs. "It's important to remember details. Anything could be a lead."

"Really? What else do you know about me?"

"I know you are the editor of the Vinciguerra magazine. You came to London a few years ago from East Germany. You tried to adopt a cat last year, and when the building association would not allow it, you snuck it in anyway."

"You've been talking to Miss Flora."

"Yes. She likes you." Gaby smiles crookedly and he goes on: "I know you prefer vodka to gin, you take your coffee with sugar but no milk, and your favorite color is blue."

"Is that all relevant to the case, Mr. Kuryakin?"

"You never know what could break case wide open," he says casually.

"Hm. Well, since I'm stuck here I may as well not eat alone. Coffee, Detective?"

.

"I work for the magazine, but I'd rather be working in the auto industry.  But Uncle Rudy and Alex insisted, and it's a comfortable job. I get to write about foreign industry, sometimes. They sent me to Brussels once, all expenses paid. Istanbul as well. It was all so beautiful. Until I was twenty I hadn't seen anything outside East Berlin. But then my mother passed away, and Uncle Rudy was able to get me a passport and bring me to London. Actually, I—" she pauses and looks at Illya, who's listening intently. He peers back over the rim of his coffee cup.

"What is it?"

"I don't know why I'm telling you all this," she says and glances away, picking up empty plates from the counter and carrying them over to the sink.

"Anything you tell me is important—for the case."

"Yes, the _case_ ," she repeats sarcastically. "Of course for the case," she is muttering as she begins washing the dishes. For a minute the only sound is of running water until she slams the plates down, making a horrible clattering, and presses a still-damp hand against her forehead in frustration.

Illya is on his feet and moves over to her, touching her shoulder lightly. "Miss Teller. What is it?"

Gaby exhales sharply. "Did you find out who the girl was?"

"Yes, you were right. Donna Marino. Actually, I needed to ask you something." He pulls his notebook from his jacket pocket and flips it open. "Do you own a Givenchy nightgown, in powder blue?"

"Yes, I was actually looking for it last night but it's gone. Why, do you know where it is?"

"The victim, it seems like she was wearing it."

"Why would she be wearing my _clothes_?"

"I do not know. But it's possible, whoever killed her, mistook her for you."

"You mean to tell me that this girl was shot—right there in my hallway. All because—she was wearing my nightgown."

"Perhaps. Yes."

"Why—why would someone want to _kill_ me?" Complex emotions are swirling in her voice. Illya can tell she's frightened, of course, but there's outrage as well. How dare someone attempt to kill her, especially in such a way not to allow her to defend herself. Illya almost smiles at the thought—she's a force of nature, he knows this for a fact.

"I don't know, but I intend to find out. In the meantime, we will keep you safe," he assures her, and once the poor woman's breathing steadies he continues, "I meant to ask yesterday: do you set sail from the Lymington docks?"

"Hm? Oh, yes, I can give you the address." Gaby slips the notebook out of his hand and takes the pencil from behind his ear. "It's easy to find. Are you checking up on my alibi, Inspector?"

"It is just routine."

"I realize it's not a very good one. Alibi, I mean."

She returns the pencil to its place and her fingers graze the shell of his ear on the way.

"Thank you," he says lowly.

"You're welcome. Anything else I can do?"

Illya clears his throat. "Ah—yes. I have a favor to ask."

"What is it?"

"I'd like to invite your uncle, Victoria and Alexander here now. To see you."

She stares at him aghast. "Aren't you going to warn them? They still think I'm dead!"

"We assume they'll be happily surprised. But it will be important to know for sure."

Gaby huffs. "I wouldn't get your hopes up."

"You don't think they will be pleased to see you?"

"No…you're right. I'm sure they will be."

"Your fiancé especially, I would think."

"I'm not sure he'll be my fiancé for very long after this. For months I've been trying to convince myself that I love him, but…"

"But what?" Illya encourages.

"Nothing. I don't know." Gaby takes a deep breath and says, "Let's get the show started, Inspector."

.

The pair moves to the main room but before Illya can make his calls, he hears a commotion outside the apartment, the sound of someone arguing with the officer standing guard. The door flies open, and Victoria bursts in. "What on earth is going on down here?" she insists. "You're supposed to be finished with your investigation, but I've heard movement and voices at all hours since yesterday—" Her eyes fall on the woman sitting on the couch, and her words die out.

"Hello, Victoria." 

"Gaby! You're—how is this possible?"

"They made a mistake. It wasn't me, I was out of town."

"Then, who?"

"Donna, one of my copy girls."

"Oh, dear. The poor thing. I'm so glad to see you, Gaby." She walks forward and takes the other woman's hands. "We were absolutely torn up about it."

"I'm sure," she says flatly. "Thank you."

Gaby shoots Illya an unreadable look, and he proceeds to call the last of his two suspects. While they're waiting for Rudi and Alexander, Napoleon arrives, entering the room with an eminent swagger.

"Good morning, all. Lovely day, isn't it? Mind if I help myself to the brandy?"

"It is ten o'clock in the morning," Illya reminds him.

"In this business you don't know if you'll make it to ten in the evening, so you drink when you can."

"Help yourself, Mr. Solo," Gaby offers. "It sounds like you have plenty of stories about your work."

"I've had my fair share of adventures."

"I'd like to hear them sometime. I love detective stories."

Napoleon leans in conspiratorially and says, "in that case, have you ever heard of the Silver Fox Thief? Back in New York—"

"Enough," Illya interrupts from the window. "Our last guests are on their way up."

"Mr. Kuryakin, I'd like to hear the end of that story, if you don't mind," Gaby chides.

"The end is that the thief was him the whole time." Gaby looks at Napoleon in confusion and he shrugs.

"He's not wrong. But it's much more impressive the way I tell it."

"Really? You were a thief in a past life, Mr. Solo?" Victoria asks.

"Oh, no." He smiles. "In this one, too."

When Alexander enters, he stares dumbly at the sofa before proclaiming, "Gaby! You're alive! My dear, I was so afraid I'd lost you." He rushes forward and drags her to standing by the shoulders, kissing her on the cheek. "I'm sorry for everything that happened, but we can work it out now. I promise. We'll pick up from where we left off. What do you say?"

She eyes him warily. "Alex—I don't know."

"Please, Gaby. This experience taught me what it would mean to lose you, and I don't want that."

She glances at Illya, who glances at his shoes. "I'll think about it."

"I'll take it," Alex says and kisses her properly this time. She pushes him away.

"Aren't you curious about _how_ this is possible?" she asks accusingly.

"Why, of course, I was just so happy to see you I can barely think straight!" he laughs.

"It was Donna who was killed. Donna Marino. In my apartment, in my nightgown."

Alexander raises a brow. "That's certainly strange. Was she spending the weekend here?"

"No she wasn't. In fact, I _think_ —"

Gaby is cut off when the door opens again and her uncle walks in, who takes one look at her and promptly collapses.

"Uncle Rudi!" She runs to him and Illya follows to help the old man to his feet and into a chair.

"My Gaby—is this real?" he puts a hand on her cheek and she smiles softly.

"Yes, it's real. I'm alive. There was a mix-up, somehow. Another girl was in my apartment, and she was killed."

"I don't—I can hardly—" Rudi gasps.

"Solo, glass of water." Illya nods at the kitchen door.

"You got it, boss."

Gaby presses a hand over her uncle's chest. "This is too cruel, Inspector. He could have had a heart attack!"

"I'm alright, my dear." Napoleon returns with water and Rudi accepts it gratefully. "Though it was quite a shock."

"I am sorry, Mr. von Trulsch. We'll leave you all to catch up now. Time to hit the road, Cowboy." Illya turns to Gaby then. "Miss Teller, if you need to go out of the apartment, please take the officer at the door with you. Otherwise, you are free to do as you like."

"You mean my quarantine is lifted?"

Illya shrugs on his coat and walks toward the door. "Yes, that's right."

"Wait!—Mr. Kuryakin." She rushes to the door after him.

"Yes?"

"I just wanted to say—thank you. For breakfast."

"Oh. You're welcome."

"You'll let me know when there's progress in the case?"

"Of course. You'll be the first to know. Here—you can call me if you have any worries."

He offers her his card and she accepts it, smiling." Thank you. Good-bye."

Around a fresh cigarette, his lips quirk into a similar smile. "Good-bye, Miss Teller."

Outside the door, Napoleon regards his partner skeptically. "Is that all? No questions for them, no investigating 'till the wee hours of the morning?"

Illya ignores the question. "Did you find out about Victoria's tickets?"

"Yes, turns out she was alone in her box. No Alexander in the proximity."

"So, Alexander lost his alibi."

"Looks that way."

"Hm. Meet me tonight at the Vinciguerra Corporation. Eleven o'clock."

The American raises an immaculately groomed eyebrow. "Why?"

"To investigate. Bring your criminal toolkit."

"I don't have a 'criminal toolkit.' Maybe you'd like to try that again?"

Illya's response is to light his cigarette and start walking away.

"You know, I've really grown to treasure these conversations of ours," Napoleon calls to the fading detective.

"In fact, the intimate silences are my favorite part," he calls louder, but he's left talking to nothing more than an empty staircase and a sympathetic patrolman at the door.

 

* * *

 

"You are twenty minutes late," Illya hisses when his partner approaches with an annoyingly slow swagger.

"I had to wait for security to be out of sight. The man was lingering."

"It doesn't matter now. I assume you can pick this lock?"

"It would be my pleasure, it really would."

"I do not doubt it."

It takes Napoleon thirty seconds and what resemble two hairpins to open the door with a flourish.

"Where to first?"

"Alexander's office."

"You sure you don't want a warrant for this? Don't police officers have to follow some kinds of rules?"

Illya frowns. "The Vinciguerras have friends in high places, including judges. So Waverly recommended this strategy. I don't want to give him a chance to hide anything because we set off alarms in the courts. "

"Speaking of," Napoleon whispers as they approach the office doors, "I can guarantee that this door is wired directly to security. If we open it, they'll know."

"Give it—" Illya glances at his watch, "—fifteen seconds."

On cue, light disappears in the building and there is the distinct sound of generators powering down, followed by panicked running of guards outside to find the problem.

"Was that your doing?"

Illya shrugs. "I know someone at electrical company."

"How devious, Peril. I'm glad to see I'm having a positive influence on you."

"Hush and do the lock."

"It's a combination lock, so it may take a little longer."

"How much longer?"

"Hm, single combination, gravity-return rotator…give me sixty seconds."

"The guards will be back in soon. You have forty-five."

"Very well. I do love a challenge."

The door is open in forty-three seconds. Illya moves immediately to the desk, Napoleon to the shelves.

"Looking for anything in particular?" The American asks.

"Anything to do with Gaby's apartment. Key, clothes, books."

"Oh, she's Gaby now, is she?"

Illya glares at the other figure in the dark. "That is her _name,_ after all."

"Her _first_ name. Not Miss Teller, not ma'am. _Gaby_."

"I am not following you."

Napoleon laughs to himself as he flips through journals on the wall. "Yes, you are."

"I am not allowed to treat her like a person?"

"Look, let's be honest for a moment. You think Alexander did it, don't you?"

"Right now, yes."

"You really think he mistook this woman for his own fiancée, just because of a nightgown?"

"Maybe the nightgown is irrelevant. A—red fish."

"You mean a red _herring._ "

"Whatever it is called," Illya says impatiently. "I think he is capable of it."

"And _I_ think there is one theory you refuse to consider."

"And what is that?"

"That the person who would have the easiest job of getting into the apartment, shooting the victim, and locking the door behind them, would be the apartment owner herself."

There is a pause before Illya hisses, "that is impossible."

"Why would it be? Killing someone who's trying to steal your fiancé, that isn't exactly out of the common way."

"She does not even _love_ him."

"Maybe not, but there's the matter of money. Alexander would make a very wealthy husband."

"You really think she is the type to care about that? I do not."

"Then maybe she wanted to exact vengeance for the affair, for humiliating her, by framing him for murder! I never dreamed I'd say this to _you_ , of all people, but you're letting personal feelings cloud your judgment."

"I am basing my opinion on evidence and evaluations of their personalities. That is all. Alexander could have taken the spare key from her desk, he does not have an alibi—"

"Neither does she—"

"Not yet, but I am checking on it tomorrow. He also had an affair with the murdered girl, and did not seem surprised to see Gaby this morning."

"He seemed surprised enough. You can't base a conviction on insufficient surprise, Peril."

" _And_ , there's also this." Illya holds up a whiskey bottle.

"Black Pony brand?" Napoleon guesses.

"Right. In the lower desk drawer."

"So, pretending you're right—and I'm not saying you are—Alexander swipes one of Miss Teller's spare keys somehow, brings Miss Marino to the apartment for some reason, along with that brand of whiskey, shoots her and locks the door behind him?"

"With current evidence, it's the best theory we have."

"Why would he take her there in the first place?"

"I say we ask him."

"What—tonight?"

"You have something better to do?"

"No, that's fine. I'm sure he'll look plenty surprised this time."

Illya walks over to the shelves. "You find anything?"

"A few of these mention Miss Teller and the magazine, but they seem like normal quarterly reports."

"Leave them for now." Illya waves his partner to the door and they take off in the direction they came from.  
"Wait!" Napoleon drags Illya back by the collar when they reach the adjoining hallway.

"What?" Illya hisses.

"Victoria. To the right. Leaving her office."

Illya looks around nervously. "She'll probably walk this way. There's no other way to the exit."

"You stay put, I'll take care of her. Once we're out of view, get out and I'll meet you."

Illya nods. "I have car across the street, a few blocks down. You'll be alright?"

"I'll be fine."

Napoleon steps out into the hallway and calls the woman's name in a low voice. Victoria looks up and quirks her head at him.

"Can I help you, Mr. Solo?" she asks incredulously.

"Yes, well, I tried you at home and—is that offer to try your single malt still open?"

She stares at him, key still in the door, and ultimately unlocks it again. "Yes, I suppose it is. Why don't you come in?"

 

* * *

 

Illya is waiting in his car and checking his watch anxiously every two minutes, until he finally sees Solo hurrying across the street through the rain and the darkness.

"You were gone for twenty-five minutes. What happened?" he demands once his partner throws himself into the passenger seat and shuts the door.

"It's fine," Napoleon answers, slightly out of breath, "if she suspected anything, she didn't seem to care."

"Did you ask why she was here so late?"

"No, actually. Slipped my mind."

"It _slipped_ your mind? Then what—" Illya stops himself. "No, never mind. I don't want to know. We're going to see Alexander."

Illya drives them through the quiet London streets, window wipers beating heavily against the windshield. He remembers when he first arrived in England, in the middle of the night. It was as dark as this. He stood out in the storm with no umbrella until it soaked him through, gulping down the rain-fresh air, and wondering why he had waited so long to know what freedom tasted like. The charm had worn off quickly, chipped away with every snide look cast in response to his accented English and every time he couldn't fit through a Victorian-era doorway. But it feels uncannily familiar to be driving through these streets now, and he can almost capture a sense of that newness and hope again—almost.

Barely audible over the rain pounding on the car roof, he asks, "where was the first place you went, when you came to London?"

"…Sorry?"

"The first place you went to see, in your _new home_."

"Why Peril, was that a personal question?"

"Just trying to make conversation," he says impatiently.

Napoleon glances at him, then straight ahead. "Harrods. They don't have pate like that in the States, so I indulged." After a pause, he adds, "you?"

"Buckingham Palace. Right off the plane. It was dark and storming, like this."

"Very patriotic of you, Peril. For queen and country and all that."

"I had seen pictures. So I was curious."

"Not quite like Red Square, eh?"

"No, it's not."

"You miss it?"

"...I don't know. Sometimes. You?"

"Not much to miss. What's the point in missing something when it forced you out?"

"You could not expect the authorities to forgive and forget."

Napoleon hums, his eyes fixated out the passenger window. "No. But I don't mean them."

"You…have family?"

"Everyone has at some point, haven't they?"

He glances at the other man and nearly tries to offer something like condolence or understanding, until he notices him fidgeting with his lapel, and asks, "what is that in your jacket?"

"Excuse me?"

"Don't play dumb. The flat rectangle sticking out of your jacket."

"Oh. A patent book, looks like they've been working on laser security systems. Fascinating stuff, I thought it could help with the case."

"You thought it could help with _stealing_."

"Look, if you'd let me ask my questions about it yesterday, I wouldn't have had to take it."

"You will return it when we get there," Illya sighs, effectively ending the conversation and feeling very much like a weary parent scolding a sticky-fingered child. They ride in silence until they reach a set of buildings that rival the Vinciguerra Corporation in extravagance and excessiveness.

Napoleon lets out an impressed whistle. "This is the place? Even classier than your Miss Teller's flat."

" _This_ is not class. It is tacky. And she is _not_ —"

"Not what, Peril? Please do continue."

Illya shakes his head and gets out of the car quickly to escape that irritatingly pointed gaze. "It is not worth having this discussion again."

Napoleon lets the matter lie while they enter the building and has the restraint not to bring it up again until, after a brief argument with the doorman about letting them go up to Mr. Vinciguerra's apartment, they are riding in the elevator in silence.

"For the record, Peril, I think the feeling is mutual."

"What?" he says dismissively.

"What, you think most civilians are so tolerant of police officers out of the kindness of their hearts?"

"She just—cares about the case. She is being helpful."

"Didn't you see her when she ran to say goodbye to you this morning? Didn't speak a word to _me_ , but she was glowing like a streetlamp at _you._ "

The moment flashes into Illya's mind again: he looked down at her, she smiled when their eyes met, and her fingers had flickered over his forearm, the briefest of touches in parting.

The elevator dings as they reach the top floor. "Deflate your chest before we talk to this guy, hm?" Napoleon reminds him.

Illya clears his throat, moves forward and raps his knuckles sharply on the penthouse door.

Alexander opens the door partially with pre-prepared annoyance written across his features; their friend in the lobby must have given him warning.

"Inspector, it's very late. This is inappropriate—"

Illya sticks his foot in the door's opening. "You can let us in now, or we come back with a warrant."

Alexander smiles patronizingly. "I invite you to try."

Napoleon feigns disbelief. "Well, surely the press will love _this_. CEO of the Vinciguerra Corporation refusing to assist in an investigation—for the murder of the girl he had a sordid affair with, no less? Yellow journalists will have a _field_ day." 

Alexander's eyes go from narrowed to blown wide. "You wouldn't—"

"Inspector Kuryakin may be bound to certain moral principles. Don't mistake me for the same."

Illya almost pats his partner on the back for that one. Almost.

The door closes, the lock chain rattles, and Alexander then opens it fully. "Fine. Come in."

They enter the apartment that is similar to the man's office in its gaudiness and he directs them to the half-circle arrangement of armchairs in the middle of the room. They take a seat.

"I'm afraid I have no intention of offering you anything, detectives."

"Good. We can cut to the chase: why did you take Donna Marino into Miss Teller's apartment?" Illya asks.

Alexander is on his feet and shouting, "I did no such thing!"

"We found your cheap brand of whiskey in the apartment. Black Pony."

"I'm the only one who could have bought that, am I?" he scoffs. "It could be Gaby's."

"She doesn't keep whiskey. Surprising that you don't know that, as her _fiancé_ ," Illya spits the word at him.

The man sits down again. "It still doesn't prove a _thing_."

"We'll get prints back tomorrow. You want us to come back tomorrow night, or get it over with now?"

Alexander glances nervously to the side, biting at his nail. Finally, he mutters. "All right. I took Donna there to put an end to our little tryst, after Gaby found out. I knew Gaby kept a key in her desk drawer, so I took it when she was out to lunch that morning."

"Why Gaby's apartment?" Illya ignores his partner's reaction to the _first name basis_ and continues, "why not your own?"

"I could hardly bring her back here, where anyone could see us. The building is full of gossips. I thought Gaby's could be a neutral sort of territory, to discuss things with Donna." 

"Wearing Gaby's nightgown was part of this friendly chat?"

"She spilled wine on her own dress, so she changed. It was nothing untoward," Alexander insists.

"What happened next?" Illya prompts after the man is quiet for a while. Alexander swallows heavily.

"I—we heard someone ring the bell. I sent her to answer, since it would be easier for her to say she was borrowing the apartment. Gaby lets friends stay the night all the time, when they need it. Then I…I heard the shot ring out. I froze for too long. If only I had been able to _do_ something, maybe—"

"Save the melodrama, Vinciguerra," Napoleon interrupts. "Get to the point." 

"Well, I—I went out to see, and saw her collapsed there, in front of the door. I called her name, but it was obvious she was gone. It was such a horrible mess that I couldn't stand to get too close. I suppose I…panicked, and ran out of the apartment."

"Locked the door behind you?" Illya guesses.

"I guess I did. Like I said, I didn't have my wits about me."

"When you were told Gaby had been killed, you seemed genuinely surprised."

"I was, I hadn't expected that mistake."

"And why didn't you _report_ the murder?"

"So our competitors could use that in a smear campaign against me? No, I have the good of the company to keep in mind."

Napoleon looks at the man in disgust. "You really are the whole package, aren't you? Liar, cheat, and coward."

Alexander jumps to his feet again. "I told you the truth. I'm not going to sit here and be insulted by a two-bit private eye and a thuggish policeman."

Illya stands and thrusts a threatening finger in his face. "I can still throw you in a cell if I want to."

"You don't have the _grounds_ for it," he snaps. 

"The investigation isn't over. And if I find out you're lying, I'll be back. So watch your mouth."

Alexander glares back. "Get out of my apartment."

On the way out, Napoleon reaches into his jacket. "By the way, Vinciguerra, here's—"

Illya puts out a hand to stop him. "No, Cowboy—don't bother."

"Hm. Whatever you say, Inspector," he says with a smirk.

Back in the elevator, Napoleon says more soberly, "what I said earlier, about Miss Teller—don't let it go to your head."

"I don't need your concern. I am a professional."

"Good. And maybe wait until she's cleared of suspicion to do something about it."

"You suspect her still?"

"I haven't dismissed the possibility. Just keep your mind open, Kuryakin." The use of his given name strikes Illya as too serious, and he is left feeling unsettled for the entire drive home.

 

* * *

 

The phone is ringing when he gets into his apartment, so Illya runs to answer it.

"Hello?"

_"Is this—Inspector Kuryakin?"_

At the sound of his name in that musical voice again, his heartbeat picks up. "Uh, yes. Speaking."

_"It's Gaby Teller."_

"Yes, I know. What can I do for you, Miss Teller?" In trying to keep his voice steady, he manages to sound aloof, proud of himself for maintaining some dignity.

_"I'm not calling too late, am I?"_

With the next words he loses any semblance of cool indifference, rushing to reassure her. "No, no, of course not. Are you alright?"

_"Yes, I'm fine."_ She pauses, and if it weren't for the quiet sound of her breathing, he would think she had hung up.

"Miss Teller?"

_"I was wondering…if you've spoken to Alexander more."_

Napoleon's words rattle unpleasantly in Illya's brain. He ignores them. "Yes, we have. Why?"

_"I wanted to know what you think of him."_

"I don't think it is good idea to discuss suspects—"

_"Oh, no, I didn't mean like that. What do you think of him, in general?"_

"I'm…not sure I follow."

_"I guess I'm just…asking for your opinion. On my fiancé."_

Illya winces slightly. "Yesterday, you said you did not need another opinion on your relationship."

_"I changed my mind."_

"I think he's—very successful, and sure of himself."

When she laughs, it reminds Illya of wind chimes in the spring. _"You can be honest, Inspector."_

"I think he is chauvinistic, womanizing, selfish, and he does not deserve…you."

_"...Oh."_

Illy attempts to pull back. "This isn't my place. I am sorry if I offended— **"**

_"No! No, that's alright. Thank you, Inspector Kuryakin. That's all I wanted to hear."_

"Then—you're welcome."

_"Thank you. Oh, I said that already. Um_ — _good night, Mr. Kuryakin."_

"Good night…Miss Teller."

He hangs up the phone after she does, then collapses into a chair, his head in his hands.

 


	5. The Arrest

  
As he parks his cruiser and begins walking toward the docks, Illya stifles a yawn. He might have gotten a decent night sleep, managed his average six hours before getting to work again, if it hadn't been for that phone call. The memory of the sound of her voice, low and honey-smooth, ran through him electrically all night. Interspersed with moments of apprehension when Solo's voice of reason chimed in to remind him not to lose himself so quickly, his mind was left racing until the sun came up this morning.

Illya thinks of the time he once spent four days in a condemned building on a stakeout, no backup, no extraction, just him and a camera and notebook. He had focused his mind and made it through the ninety-six hours successfully, even making the principal arrest himself, because he had the discipline that his fellow detectives lacked. Yet this little woman with the mod outfits and dark eyes is proving to be a much greater test to his willpower.

Lost in thought, he nearly runs into a man on the way up to the harbormaster's office.

"Beg your pardon," the man says.

"I'm sorry. I'm looking for the harbormaster."

"You're lookin' at 'im. What can I do for you?"

He flashes his badge. "DI Kuryakin. I am looking for a boat registered under the name von Trulsch."

The man turns back to his office door and unlocks it. "I can check the books for you, Inspector."

The harbormaster goes to the open ledger on his desk and flips through, humming to himself. "We 'ave one, called _Der Stolz._ German fellow and proud, I take it?"

"Yes, it seems so."

"Well, the boat under that name ain't out now, sir."

"I know. I want to know about Friday."

"I'm afraid it ain't been out for a while. It's impounded. Been there months, at least. Somethin' wrong with it, but the family ain't fixed it yet."

Illya stares at him. "So—no one took it out this weekend?"

"No sir, 'fraid not."

After a long pause, he says hoarsely, "I see. Thank you." He barely remembers to ask about the nearby address he'd recorded in his notes from Gaby's things. "One last question. How do I get to this area?"

"Southampton, sir? Few miles north of 'ere, just where the houses start to get real nice."

"Thank you," he says again, and leaves.

On the trek back to his car, he stops to sit at a bench and look out at the water, glaring against the bright rising sun. Gaby lied to him. Lied so easily, a careless lie that was so simple to catch. Why? As the devastating thought plays on repeat, he finds himself feeling utterly lost. Part of him (a very small, illogical part) wishes he had dragged Solo along on this trip, so he would shake him by the shoulders now and tell him to _snap out of it_ , even if it would be prefaced with a condescending _I told you so._

The rest of him (the far bigger, far more logical part) reminds him that he has never needed Solo before now. So he crushes the thoughts and forces himself to focus on the case. At this moment, he has an address to investigate.

When he becomes irritatingly distracted on the drive there, Illya does something he never does: he turns on the radio. A very familiar American singer wails along to music that sounds simultaneously soulful and upbeat, and he immediately shuts it off again even though the damage is done. His heart is left thrumming in his chest along to the beat of _Cry to Me_ for the rest of the ride.

.

He approaches a quaint doorway in a pretty little seaside cottage, stuck in the middle of a row of identical, pretty little seaside cottages. It seems strange that Gaby would know someone who lives here. Or maybe she owns it herself and leads a double life here, enjoys the salty sea air and invites some handsome local fisherman by for coffee—

Illya holds his breath, and knocks on the door.

An older, tired-looking man answers with a confused expression. "May I help you?"

"Hello, sir. My name is DI Kuryakin. I was wondering if you know a young woman, Gabriella Teller."

Illya prepares to show the man a photograph, but the man stops him dead with his next words: "Why, yes, that's my daughter."

"I'm sorry—your _daughter_?"

He extends his hand to shake the detective's. "Yes, I'm Dr. Teller. Udo Teller. Is everything alright, Inspector?"

 

* * *

 

"We're _so_ happy that you're alright, Gaby—"

"—That's right! What would the magazine do without you? I mean—"

"—But it is a shame about Donna, the poor thing—"

"—Of course it is! But honestly Gaby, if I had to choose one to be alive, it would be you. Is that a horrible thing to say?—"

"—You _are_ horrible, Ezra, but you're not wrong, not at all—"

"—Certainly not! Now drink up, Gaby darling, Lord knows you must need it!"

Gaby smiles falsely as her coworkers laugh and chatter on, needing no input from her. As the two walk away, having paid their respects, she buries her nose deeper into her champagne glass. She hates parties, but Alexander had not asked for her opinion before planning a company-wide celebration of her return. It quickly devolved into an excuse for employees to get drunk the second the work day was over, and Gaby has since sequestered herself to a corner of the ballroom and avoided socializing. Difficult, since she is the 'guest of honor,' but not impossible.

She sees Rudi approaching with a determined look on his face and quickly gulps down the rest of her champagne, flags down a waiter for another one.

"Tsk, you're drinking as if there is a hole in your glass, _liebling_ ," Rudi says.

"No, I'm drinking as if there was nearly a bullet hole in _me_. Which, if you remember, there was." She surprises herself as well as Rudi with the tone; she is never sarcastic with her uncle, knowing it's much easier to appease him than to argue.

Rudi sighs. "I'm—sorry dear. I know how frightening it must be. But surely this helps to take your mind off things?"

"How can we be celebrating at all? A woman is still dead. A woman who _worked_ here."

"We can honor her _while_ celebrating you, dear. Try to enjoy yourself. After all, it was very sweet of Alexander to put this together for you, wasn’t it? He must have worked very hard."

"Uncle Rudi…" Gaby starts, and nearly changes her mind. Then she thinks of blonde hair and silly Russian cigarettes and she decides that her uncle needs to know the truth.

"Uncle Rudi, I'm not sure I can be with Alex anymore."

He stares at his niece blankly. "What on earth do you mean?"

"I don't _love_ him, and I'm starting to realize that I never even _liked_ him—"

Rudi laughs loudly, interrupting her. "My child, don't be absurd. You'll learn to!"

"He _never_ listens to me, betrays my trust constantly—"

"Gaby, listen," Rudi says soberly. "No man will be perfect. The best thing you can do is find it in your heart to forgive him. You must get married as soon as possible, if nothing else, to protect you both."

She glares at her uncle. "What on earth are _you_ talking about?"

"The longer you two put off a wedding—or worse, if rumors spread that the engagement is off…well, people could become suspicious that one of you knows something terrible about the other."

"I _do_ know something terrible about him—"

"— _But,_ if you get married, support each other, it makes you both stronger. Don't you see that?"

"You think Alex killed Donna, don't you? Or worse, you think I did!"

Rudi raises his hands in surrender. "I will not make any judgments about either of you. All I want is to protect you both from any more scandal, _liebling_."

"You are _unbelievable_ , Rudi," she snaps, and storms off to the ladies' room to get away from this awful party.

Victoria is already standing at the sink when she enters, touching up her makeup.

"Hello, Gaby. Enjoying your party?" she asks without looking up from the mirror.

Gaby tries to calm her breathing. She hates to look discomposed in front of Victoria. The woman seems to thrive on the perceived weakness of others.

"Oh, yes. It's fine."

Victoria finishes applying her lipstick, smacks her lips together a few times with a _pop,_ and then turns to lock eyes with Gaby.

"You know, dear…I know you didn't do it."

Gaby can't help it: she looks surprised. "Really? Well—thank you."

Victoria hums. "Alexander, maybe. But not you."

"What makes you say that?"

"You know him as well as I do. He's always been petulant, angry. Whereas you…you've always been sweet, and honest. That's why I was so surprised when he proposed, and you said yes."

"You probably thought that proposal would come for you, instead."

"Yes, perhaps. He may be no good, but he's what I want. We understand each other. That's how I know he's capable of having killed that girl." Victoria dabs at the corners of her blood-red lipstick. "He's like me."

Gaby backs away from her as Victoria walks to the exit, and the tall woman laughs lowly. "Don't worry Gaby, it wasn't me…but I thought about it."

Gaby runs to the sink and splashes cool water on her face, mascara be damned. When she has wiped away the smeared make-up and numbed her nerves the best she can, she leaves the ladies' room and spots the American detective, Solo, standing near the center of the ballroom. He smiles pleasantly when he notices her, and she rushes over to him.

"I'm very glad to see you," she breathes.

"To see _me?_ Are you sure you haven't mistaken me for someone else? Namely someone taller, more irritable, less sartorially gifted?"

Gaby exhales a laugh. "No, right now, I'm very glad it's you."

His smile has an edge of concern to it now. "Not one for parties, eh, Miss Teller?"

"Not this one, anyway. All of these people—I feel like I'm seeing them with their masks off for the first time. People I've built my entire life around. Why did I _do_ that? And what can I possibly do about it now?"

Solo puts a comforting hand on her arm. "You rebuild. It isn't easy. It never is. But it _will_ be better, after the fact."

Gaby sighs slowly. "Thank you." She is more grateful for Solo's steady, grounding presence than he will ever know. "Now—you can finish your story from yesterday."

Solo smiles crookedly. "With pleasure. If you'll escort me to the open bar, I will captivate you with the tale of the Silver Fox Thief."

He extends his elbow and Gaby takes hold of it. "Will it still be captivating, if I know the ending?"

"I guess you'll have to be the judge of that."

 

* * *

 

Illya enters the ballroom and, surrounded by elite socialites in outfits worth more than his month's rent, feels decidedly outnumbered and underdressed. He notices his temporary partner at the very back of the room chatting with Miss Teller, who looks distressingly beautiful in a full-length navy gown. Her eyes go wide when she notices him, and he forces his gaze down as he walks over to them.

"Good evening, Peril. Have a productive morning?"

"Yes, very."

"Ah—will you have a drink, Mr. Kuryakin?" Even when she says his name, he refuses to look directly at her.

"No. Thank you. I am actually here on business."

"Well, so am I," Napoleon says.

"Yes, though you couldn't tell." He eyes the several empty glasses in front of Solo on the standing table.

"Business and pleasure aren't mutually exclusive."

Illya rolls his eyes. " _Anyway._ I'm here because it's time to make an arrest."

"So soon? Who is it?" Gaby asks eagerly.

Illya's eyes sweep over the whole room, then look down directly at Gaby for the first time since entering. His expression is almost pained.

"Come on," he says to her quietly. "Let's go."

"What— _me?"_ she shouts. This draws the attention of several partygoers. Solo is shooting his partner a skeptical look.

"Please," Illya insists, "we should go quietly."

In a daze, Gaby allows herself to be guided toward the exit by the detective. There is a hush over the party, people whispering as she walks by. She maintains her straightest, most confident posture.

Suddenly there is a horrible outcry, and she and Illya turn to see Rudi and Alexander rushing toward them, the former completely red in the face.

"This is madness, release her at once! I know the Commissioner and I could have you kicked back down to a patrolman in seconds, Inspector!" Rudi shouts.

"But—why Gaby?" Alex insists.

"Enough, both of you," she snaps. "Don't make a scene. I'll be fine."

As they begin to walk away again, Alexander cries out, "Wait—I know for a fact it wasn't Gaby!"

Illya looks at him, unimpressed. "And how is that?"

"I got a glimpse, before the killer slammed the door—"

"And you wait until _now_ to share this?" Rudi shouts at him.

Alexander ignores the outburst. "Well, I couldn't tell much, but I could tell it wasn't a female figure!"

"You would be the expert in that, wouldn't you?" Gaby snaps.

Alexander looks confused. "What are you saying?"

Gaby pulls the ring off her finger and throws it at the man. It hits him in the chest, then falls to the floor with a light _clink_.

"Take your ring back, Alex. Give it to someone like Victoria. You two deserve each other."

"Gaby, you're being hysterical." He reaches out to grab her arm and she yanks it away.

"You don't get to _touch_ me anymore."

Alexander is instantly angry. "Oh, I see what's happening. It's him, isn't it? Are you trying to make me jealous?"

"I don't care about what you do or what you feel anymore, Alex. Get that through your skull."

"Don't debase yourself like this, Gaby. We still have a chance. Don't throw it away on a two-bit communist detective."

Illya takes a step closer to the man. "If only you had been the one to open that door, Vinciguerra."

"You—!" Enraged, Alexander shoves the detective by the shoulder, and Illya responds by swiftly punching Alexander in the gut. The crowd gasps as the company owner doubles over and falls to the floor. Victoria rushes over and kneels down next to him as he whimpers in pain.

"Smoothly done," Solo mutters. "So much for a quiet exit. Let's get out of here, hm?"

.

"I'll meet you there," Solo says soberly when they reach the police cruiser parked outside, glances at Gaby, and then goes to find his own car.

Illya opens the front passenger door for her, gestures that she should get in. Gaby hesitates.

"Shouldn't a suspected murderer sit in the _back_ of the police car?" she says coldly.

Illya straightens his posture, hand still on the door. "The back is reserved for dangerous people. I do not think you're dangerous."

She holds his gaze, fire in her eyes. In any other context, Illya would be happy to let her burn him down with those eyes.

"Please," he continues. "Is much more comfortable than the back."

"Fine," she yields, and gets in.

After several minutes of silent driving, Gaby speaks up.

"Why are you in London, Detective Kuryakin?"

Illya's grip tightens slightly on the steering wheel. "What do you mean?"

"Mr. Solo told me you defected from the Soviet Union. Why?" she asks, sounding utterly blasé, as if they're merely discussing the weather.

"Many reasons." He hopes the bluntness of his answer will keep her from asking more. It doesn't.

"What's number one?"

"There is...no going back from some knowledge. From some actions."

"Are you going to tell me what you did, or should I start guessing?"

He takes a very slow breath. "My father was a high-ranking member of the Communist Party. Very successful, until he was accused of embezzling party funds. I was ten years old when he was arrested. I remember my mother stood at the bottom of the stairs, screaming as they dragged him out of the house in the middle of the night. I was afraid and stayed in my bedroom. But I could see them outside the window, hitting him, knocking him to the ground, laughing. They forced him into the car and drove away. And that was the last time I saw him." He clears his throat. "Eventually I joined the army, then KGB. To make up for his mistakes, to make my mother proud. I was a good soldier and a good agent. Until one day, when I overheard a commanding officer talking in whispers on the phone, and he said my father's name."

"He knew your father?"

"Yes. I found out that they had worked together for many years. My mother remembered his name, said he and my father had been friends at one time. So I went to speak to the man. I thought he could answer my questions, about what happened to my father after they took him away…He was very nervous when I told him who I was. He told me he was very sorry for what happened, that it had gotten out of hand. I asked him what he meant, and he ordered me out of his office. So I went back when he was gone, to look around. And…"

"And?"

He glances at her. "It is long story."

She scoffs. "It's not like I have anything else to do."

"I realized my father was framed—that _he_ framed my father. So I confronted him later. And he admitted it." 

"Did you kill him?"

"Something worse than death, I think."

"…How did you get out?"

"Seems the man was not popular with any of his colleagues. In addition to betraying my father, he was selling information to the Americans. So we made compromise. I had taken care of mole before he could give away more valuable information, and they would not come looking once I left."

Gaby is silent for a few moments, then says quietly, "You're a dark, complicated man, Mr. Kuryakin."

"I know."

"Why would you tell me all this?"

Illya stares at the black road ahead and answers her as honestly as he can: "Because you asked."

"Hm. It seems like corruption runs rampant in your home country."

"It runs rampant in many places, I think."

She turns in her seat to look at him. "And what about you, Mr. Kuryakin? Are you corruptible?"

Slowly he pulls into the precinct's parking lot. "No one has ever cared enough to try."

.

The light is ghastly bright and Gaby feels small under it, like a microbe being analyzed under the microscope. The two-way mirror can't possibly fool anyone, and she stares straight ahead at the two detectives who are no doubt looking at her from the other side.

"What's the plan here, Peril?" Solo mutters, feeling a rare burst of sympathy for the woman waiting in the interrogation room across the glass. She looks contradictory sitting in that filthy room in a Laroche dress, her hair slightly deflated but still maintaining its elegant up-do.

"I will ask the questions. _You_ will stay here and observe."

"You know, I used to be _very_ good at interrogations, when I was on the force in New York. I once extracted a confession in under six minutes—"

"Yet another reason they kicked you out?"

Napoleon grimaces. "Fine. Go on then, I'm sure she's tired of waiting for you."

"I just—need a minute."

"When's the last time _you_ were nervous about interviewing a suspect?"

"Ten years ago. When we brought in the Southwark Strangler."

"The serial killer?"

Illya nods. "And I'm more afraid of _her_."

"At least she won't try to asphyxiate you with piano wire. Well, probably won't."

Illya sighs. "Thanks. That is very helpful."

.

Illya sits directly across from Gaby, mirroring her posture of arms crossed over her chest.

"Shouldn't I be in handcuffs, or something?" she asks sharply.

"What, do you want to be?"

There is a sort of choking noise that comes from the other side of the glass, and Illya makes a very rude gesture behind his back for the Cowboy.

"What I _mean_ is, no, you don't need to be. Unless you plan on attacking me."

" _No_. I don't."

"Good." Illya dives right into the heart of the matter: "I went to Lymington this morning."

"And?" she says impatiently.

"Your boat is out of commission. Hasn't been out in months."

"Wha—I—"

"So we know you lied about sailing. What else were you lying about?"

"But I _was_ sailing! I showed you the pictures, and they're timestamped!"

"You aren't in any of them. Someone else could have taken those for you."

Gaby scoffs in disbelief. "What, so I—I paid someone off to take pictures on a boat, so I could murder a woman? Isn't that a little paranoid, Inspector?"

"Stranger things have happened."

"But I'm _not_ lying!" 

"Then how did you go out?"

"I don't know what you—"

"You took someone else's boat, didn't you?"

"I don't _know_ anyone in Lymington."

"That's true. But your _father_ lives a few miles away, in Southampton."

Gaby's eyes go wide and she falls back in her chair. "How did you know?"

"I found the address in your address book. After that, it was detective work."

"You took a guess," she accuses.

"I made clever deduction."

"A _lucky_ guess, then."

Illya ignores the little dig. "That's a better alibi. So why would you lie?"

"I thought it wouldn't matter, once someone said they saw me there. I didn't think you'd ask about my _boat._ I didn't even tell you its name."

"The name is public information. But that doesn't answer my question. Why not say you were with your father?"

Gaby exhales slowly. "Because…my uncle doesn't know that I've been visiting him."

"He would disapprove?"

"He and my father never got along. And my father and I were estranged until recently, so Rudi always told people that he's 'the only family I have left.' Then my father sent me a letter to say he was living here in England, and wanted to see me. I visit him every month now."

"So you went out on _his_ sailboat. _The Laura_."

"Yes…it's named after my mother." Gaby slinks down in her chair a bit. "I can't believe I was ready to hide my alibi, just to keep up a lie for my uncle. I've wasted so much of my life trying to keep him happy. I quit ballet, my mechanics job…I'm done trying to appease him."

"Come on," Illya says softly. "I will take you home."

"Wait—if you knew all that already, why bring me here?"

"I needed you to confirm it. I thought an…official setting would help with that."

She laughs softly. "Illya…that's ridiculous."

He can't hear the next words she says, because the sound of his first name (not _Inspector_ , not _Mr. Kuryakin_ , but _Illya_ ) has set off fireworks in his brain.

"Sorry, what?" he stammers.

"I said, can we go? This room is awful."

"Oh, yes. Of course."

"I knew it wasn't you, Gaby," Napoleon calls from the other side of the glass.

Gaby laughs louder. "Thank you, Mr. Solo."

"Call me Napoleon, please. If he's earned a first name basis, surely I have."

She smiles. "Napoleon then. Thank you."

"And let me say Peril, that was a real hoot to watch—"

"Oh, just go _home_ , Cowboy."

.

Once outside, the rain is coming down in sheets so the pair is forced to run to the car. Illya holds the door for Gaby and then rushes to his side as quickly as he can.

"Alexander was the one that brought her to my apartment, wasn't he?" Gaby asks after Illya starts to drive and they've both caught their breath.

"Yes."

"So he could have done it."

"I think it is likely, yes."

"But didn't they find her right in front of the door? That would be a strange place for him to shoot her if he were in the apartment."

"He could have turned the body to look like she had opened the door, to cast suspicion away from him."

Gaby shakes her head. "That's impossible."

"Why is that?"

"Because Alexander is not very smart. He can barely think two steps ahead. If it weren't for Victoria, the company would barely be afloat. She's always been the real brains."

"Interesting. I suppose she could have motive, but was she after you or Donna? And why wait until now? She also had an alibi—"

Gaby shakes her head. "I don't know...I'm so tired."

"Sorry. We don't need to talk about the case."

"What do we talk about instead?"

He glances at her. "So—you used to be ballerina?"

"That's right. In fact, Tchaikovsky was my specialty."

"Swan Lake?"

"The Sleeping Beauty, actually."

" _Re_ ally?"

"You're a fan of the ballet, Illya?"

"I, yes—very much."

They arrive in front of her building, and he escorts her to the top of the stairs with his umbrella.

"You'll remember to lock your doors?"

Gaby nods. "Yes, I don't think I'll ever forget again."

Illya hums. "Good. Sleep well, Gaby." He starts back down the steps.

"Wait!" she calls.

"Yes?"

"Won't you walk me upstairs? You can check my closet for monsters."

His lips quirk into a small smirk. "Alright. But…what about under the bed?"

"Is that where they're usually hiding?"

"In my experience, yes."

"Then that too. See? That's why I need you. You're the expert."

 

* * *

 

"You can have a seat," Gaby calls from her bedroom, "I just need to change this dress. It's soaked through."

Illya does as he's told, choosing one of her more comfortable armchairs. The room looks very different than it did a mere two nights ago, when he sat here in the dark agonizing over invading a dead woman's privacy. Now this woman is very much alive and walking out of her bedroom in a powder-blue silk robe that hugs her figure, long hair combed and damp from the rain. She doesn't look over at him—though she must know he's staring—because her destination is clearly the bar, where she generously fills two snifters of brandy. She brings them over and sits down on the arm of his chair, twirling a glass in front of his face.

"Are you off the clock yet, Inspector?"

He accepts it. " _Prost_."

She smiles approvingly and clinks her glass against his. "You speak German."

"Some. Though I am out of practice."

"I know a little Russian, actually."

"Really?"

She nods and takes another sip. "Just the curse words, though."

He laughs. "Cursing is an art, in Russian."

"Mm. I'll help you practice your German, if you teach me."

She is hovering over him, that heart face so invitingly close to his that he can't help it: he closes the distance between them and kisses her softly.

When he reluctantly pulls away and looks at her through half-lidded eyes, she's smiling.

"I was wondering when you'd do that," she breathes.

"You make it impossible to resist."

She sets him ablaze with a look, one part invitation and two parts expectation.

"Good."

Her fingers slowly untwine from his lapel and she stands up, disappears into the bedroom again.

He follows her in.


End file.
